


remember when

by hunshine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 07:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17341157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunshine/pseuds/hunshine
Summary: originally part of a longer work. might be one day!





	remember when

_august 5, 2018_

Nick can kind of feel it in the air — the precise moment the scale tips between himself and Harry. It’s the very degree at which London gets too hot for comfort.  Or that last rumble of the kettle before the water boils. He’d joke and say that he’s psychic but really it’s a matter of time. It’s that he’s done this for long enough now, survived around Harry for long enough, that he just knows.

Harry, in a subtle, subdued way, is a storm, and Nick is a forecaster. One who's only managed Harry's chaos because he’s a bit turbulent himself.

In an ideal world, where Nick has his shit together, he’s not hung up on a superstar. He’s not hung up on anyone. He’s got a farm and a cow and is learning to make his own cheese, then his own jam, and has found contentment with just his twelve dogs and a completely homemade, completely organic cheese plate. He hosts parties every now and then where friends come to compliment him on his affinage. Using terms like affinage and _fromager_ to describe his new life.

But he doesn’t have his shit together.

Last night, the tipping point was two minutes after Harry climbed into the passenger seat of his car. They weren’t drunk or tired, but Harry pulled his hat off, pushed his fingers through his hair and decided: “Might stay at yours.”

The spare room has his name written all over it by now, no matter how long he stays away from London, and he knows it.

In the past, they had more than a few nights out a month and neither of them ever felt like going home alone afterwards. Especially when they were doing that weird not-quite-dating but definitely not-shagging-other-people thing years ago. They were also not-exclusive, not-complicated and not-talking-about-it.

And then, at some point, when Harry had been abroad for too long and didn’t come back to see Nick as soon as he had the chance and Nick was more miserable about that than he thought he’d be, he realized that maybe they should have talked about their not-thing. Even just to say, “I know you’re on the other side of the world right now but maybe we can have a thing thing.”

Didn’t happen. Nothing happened, in fact. Everything just petered off.

(Sort of.)

They see each other often enough these days. Nick goes to Harry’s shows. Harry turns up for dinner. They go out with mutual friends. And it’s never immediately fraught with tension when Harry says he wants or needs to spend the night. Sometimes it’s just loneliness. Sometimes it’s just necessity.

In the car, leaving dinner with Harry L. and Antonio, the scale simply tipped. For no reason at all, if you can believe it.

Harry met Nick’s eyes and slouched in his seat with a smile on his face, his eyelids a little heavy. He looked tired or bored, even, but that’s just how his face gets when he’s too self-assured. A bit too smug. A bit too content. Like he could have the world if he wanted it enough. And he could have Nick if he wanted him even a little bit. Which Nick realizes, at that moment, he does.

“Who are you posing for?” Nick asks. “I haven’t got a camera.”

Harry laughed. “I’m not posing.”

“You’re always posing,” Nick said, starting his car.

Harry started fiddling with the radio and when he found something he liked, he lifted both hands into the air and started riding imaginary waves with them, nodding his head side to side. "We should have taken a car,” he said. “You haven’t had enough to drink.”

“I’m trying to watch my figure,” Nick said.

Harry propped his elbow up on the window frame. “But you’ve never looked better.”

Nick sputtered disbelievingly. But, to be fair, he’d been putting a lot of work in — lots of really expensive facial treatments like the vampire facial just recently (highly recommended, in his opinion), lots of gym time, lots of nutrient-rich concoctions. And it’s not like he’s ever been unattractive, but he likes to think of himself as fine wine lately. He hopes that’s how other people think of him. Harry, in particular, obviously.

Later, Nick’s standing in his kitchen in just his briefs when Harry comes out of the spare room in exactly the same fashion, long nimble legs, toned tattooed arms hung loosely at his sides.

“What’s that painting you’ve put up in my room?” he asks.

“It was a gift. From a friend.”

“Oh?” His voice says he somehow determined this already or he doesn’t find it that important. “Which friend?”

“Aram. You don’t know him.”

“I know you were dating him,” Harry says, and when Nick lifts shocked brows at him, he adds: “Last year, wasn’t it? Took him to Fran’s party.”

“Wow. Finally got myself a stalker fan.”

“It’s kind of pathetic you didn’t know I was stalking you ‘til now.”

Nick shrugs. “Can’t argue with that. You’ve got a little something here.” He gestures at own lips and circles them.

Harry wipes his mouth. “Did I get it?”

“No, still got that ridiculous pout on.”

Harry groans and rolls his eyes back. Almost cartoon-like. He probably could roll them all the way beneath his lids. Because his face is expressive like that and Nick is constantly surprised and entertained by the things he can do with it. It’s not the most comforting image — just the white of a person’s eyes. But Nick’s been staring at Harry’s mouth for the last thirty seconds or so and he’s overdue for something harsher, less seductive, maybe even grotesque.

Harry takes Nick’s tea right out of his hands, leaning back into the counter, and has a sip.

Nick pretends to be disgruntled. “I could have made you your own.”

“Not as cute as us sharing,” Harry says and sets the mug down instead of returning it to Nick’s hands like a gentleman. There’s the soft thud of the mug hitting the marble, a brief beat of silence, and then Harry steps behind Nick and wraps his spider arms around Nick’s torso, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“Nick,” he says.

Nick can’t help it: He laughs.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Harry says.

Nick turns to face him. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s this—“ he reaches up, brushing Harry’s chin where he is either growing a beard or being lazy about shaving. Nick hopes the latter and he’d tell him so if the length got concerning enough. As it is, it just— “Tickles.”

That answer seems to satisfy Harry because he smiles. And Nick cups his chin and squeezes his cheeks together, thumb pressed into his dimple. Harry swats at his hands.

Nick was already planning to kiss him, to be honest. They'd been close enough for long enough now that he knew when Harry wanted to be kissed. And he never has much of a choice when they’re like this. Harry has a whole artillery of unique and devastating _things_ —  the way he smiles, the way he laughs, the way he sings, the way he talks, the way he’s silent — and Nick is weak for every single one. But he’d never admit it when he could just kiss him instead. Problem solved.

He lifts both hands to Harry’s face this time, his touch gentle, and presses their mouths together. He always tiptoes into it. Just a little peck in case either of them changes their minds.

And then Harry in all his eagerness will slip his tongue into Nick’s mouth like a half a year hasn't gone by since the last time he did so. He steps impossibly close until their toes touch and presses his cool hands to Nick’s waist. He’s shameless, reaching for Nick’s waistband, squeezing him through his briefs. Nick would tell him to slow down but it’s late, and he’s hard and he’s been waiting forever. A couple months since Harry last got on his knees for him which is what he does now. Dragging Nick’s waistband beneath his cock.

“Bit eager, aren’t we?” Nick comments.

“Oh, shut _up_ ,” Harry says.

Nick laughs and Harry looks at him. Again with the pouting.

“I am actually laughing at you this time, but carry on, love,” Nick says and when Harry doesn’t, just sits there with his pretty lips pressed together, Nick says, “please.”

Sometimes Nick forgets how much room Harry takes up in his bed. Which doesn’t make sense because he _always_ notices how big his bed is when he’s the only one lying in it. Sometimes he likes having all that room to himself. Sometimes he convinces friends to watch TV from his bedroom so they can all pile in. Sometimes, when Harry’s turned into an actual spider, limbs sprawled, one ankle thrown over Nick’s shin— Nick thinks he wouldn’t want his bed any other way.

In the morning, he leaves Harry sound asleep and returns to find him sitting up with his phone in hand, shoulders hunched. The room already sort of smells like him. And it’ll be at least a day before the scent fades from the sheets.

“Good morning!” Nick says cheerfully. He practically tosses the plate of dry toast with one fried egg onto the bed. “Menu is a little sparse.”

Harry frowns at it. “This is barbaric.”

(Nick also forgets how deep Harry’s voice is after he’s woken up. Rough and soft at the same time like the centre of a wave or something.)

Nick sinks into the bed beside him. “But I made it with love.”

“And barbarity,” Harry says, lifting the toast. He breaks the yolk with one corner, dips, and stuffs half into his gob.

“ _That’s_ barbaric,” Nick says.

Harry smiles. “Thanks for breakfast,” he says, or Nick thinks he says. He can’t understand him with his mouth full.

“Anytime. I need to meet my sister in an hour,” Nick says. “If you stay, just know that egg and that piece of toast was the last of the food here.”

Harry’s mouth parts and his brows furrow. “Are you taking proper care of yourself?”

“I’ve got a grocery delivery coming this evening.”

Harry is still eyeing him suspiciously. “I need to leave anyway.”

Nick lies down on his stomach, propping his chin up in his palm. “And where are you off to?”

“I’ve got a date,” Harry says.

“With?”

“Her name is Lena,” Harry says. “She works for Vogue.”

Mentally, Nick scours his catalogue of friends. Because it wouldn’t be the first time Harry’s dated within their circle. (Messy for everyone involved.) But he doesn’t recall a Lena.

“You mean she’s a model.”

Harry blinks. “She’s a columnist.”

Interesting. Nick rolls onto his back and then sits upright, swings his feet off the side of bed.

“Well. Can’t wait to meet her in The Sun,” he says, standing.

It’s not his best joke. Maybe too humourless, in fact. And he has to tread carefully when teasing Harry about his love affairs. Because if it’s really a sinking ship, _clearly_ he’s going down with it. And, also, Harry can be a bit sensitive about it all, randomly and after only slight provocation. Nick can get away with cheeky comments on air or even that one Instagram post of Kendall Jenner on a yacht, but there’s no telling when something _will_ bother him or why.

But Nick’s not sorry. He ignores whatever whiny comment Harry makes in reply and steps into the bathroom for a shower.

The thing is—

He’s well aware of how this works. He knows it’s not just him.

Not Harry and Nick, but Harry and the many people who love him.

What he doesn’t like is the rare moments in which he lets himself forget.

Nick always knows the instant the scale tips in his favour, but it sneaks up on him sometimes, the moment it tips back.

**Author's Note:**

> originally part of a longer work. might be one day!


End file.
